


A Tidy Spell

by Suvroc (cuteandillusion)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chores, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Laundry, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteandillusion/pseuds/Suvroc
Summary: Really nothing but an excuse for them to be domestic and soft.--For the one true pairing prompt:Crowley: I love youAziraphale: *shoving laundry basket into Crowley's hands* stop saying I love you to get out of chores
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67
Collections: Good Omens OTP Prompts Event Works





	A Tidy Spell

**Author's Note:**

> As I was writing this, can I help it if two artists posted separate “Crowley in the washing machine” art? I cannot.
> 
> [Firecracker Sweet ](https://firecrackerswt.tumblr.com/post/629831635570982912/18-coiling-up-in-the-wrong-place)  
> [Antisocialsmond ](https://twitter.com/antisocialsmond/status/1327400378242125824)
> 
> Title attributed to [a poem](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7412e4085435f337f27136844f55104a/5dd45c589d760cef-16/s540x810/04814b6367d562a13ee865cb8d6050a328173e37.jpg) by Richard Armour

“You’re just moving the dust particles around,” Crowley said, watching Aziraphale waltz around the cottage wielding his preposterously impractical feather duster. He knew Aziraphale loved the meditation of cleaning, and truth be told, Crowley was happy to let the angel do anything that brought him comfort in their semi-retirement. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to rib him incessantly about it. Quite the opposite really--being an annoyance brought Crowley comfort. And pleasure. And all the good things he would never admit he adored (or needed).

“I can tell you,” he stated blankly, “that mote there was here last time, and you just moved it,” he gestured, “over there.” He tsk'ed. “Not making it any cleaner.”

The demon was sprawled (like a casually tossed angular throw-pillow, or a very bony blanket) over the sofa, which he had repositioned to be as close to the roaring fireplace as possible without having it actually combust. He split his time now, as did Aziraphale, between London and their country home, and winter days at the cottage were some of Crowley’s favorites. Not that he didn’t love the summer too, with its overflow of bounty from the garden, and the sunbaked stone walls so warm they held the heat well through evening-time. Or the autumn for that matter, when their little orchard was all done up with the colors of red and orange. Or the spring, quite truthfully, with everything new and green and bursting.

Well. He supposed to every season there was a thing.

Winter was grand because there was nothing to do. Not really. And although, in the not-too-distant past, he would have found that as distasteful as old nail clippings and as dull as paste, he had to admit, he’d mellowed to the thought of being bored. Just a bit. Living with a certain hedonist had shown him there was loveliness and splendor to be found in giving in to some gentle sloth. Winter was a time to laze about and drink too-strong mulled wine until you fell into a torpid stupor.

It was also as good a time as any to pester the angel.

He stretched, wriggling his toes, encased as they were in the stripped stockings Aziraphale had gifted him. He sighed inwardly, relishing the calm, and his planned-for plan for breaking it. 

Aziraphale peered over his tiny spectacles at him. “Would you like to finish the tidying?”

Crowley raised a hand, ready to snap a lazy miracle, but Aziraphale bustled forward and threatened him with dusty feathers. “Not like that!”

“Awh,” Crowley groaned, “you’re not on a manual labor kick are you? Again?”

Aziraphale’s look was one of 'disappointed librarian'. “I conducted my experiments and have concluded that human things keep longer when cared for in a traditional fashion. You know that.”

“Which is why your shop is such a gleaming display of cleanliness?”

“The bookshop is different,” he groused. “It is layered with just the right amount of detritus so as not mar the books while also dissuading people from touching… anything.”

He ruffled the feathers at Crowley again, who fought valiantly to stare him down and specifically not sneeze.

He failed.

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth quirked up.

“Don’t say it,” Crowley said and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve.

Aziaraphale wiggled in place for a second, then offered up: “ _gesundheit, mein Schatz_.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll be heading down to the local café soon if you’d care to accompany me.”

“Mmmm,” Crowley sniffed. “You want me to go out in this weather? When I could just as easily stay curled up here by the hearth doing my damnedest to stay warm?”

With a flourish, Aziraphale flipped the feather duster onto its hook. “Your choice. Merely offering. I’ll bring back some of those lemon and currant biscuits you so like.”

“Ahh, sweets. So that’s your ulterior motive.” Crowley slithered sideways on the sofa and bent to watch Aziraphale as he walked over to the door. “Shoulda guessed.”

“No motive, I just want to purchase some to make sure that they continue to make them. It's economics,” he said, and began to prepare himself for the outdoors, wrapping a long white knit scarf around his neck. He folded his little wire glasses and placed them into a soft-sided case which he slid into his pocket. “Goodness, where is my hat?”

Crowley twisted a few more times, then rose from the sofa. He ambled towards Aziraphale. “‘Don't you remember? You dropped it in a mud puddle.”

Aziraphale pulled on his winter coat and sighed. “Oh dear. That’s right.”

Crowley came up close and threaded a hand under the edge of the coat, halting Aziraphale from buttoning it up any further. “You sure you don’t want to stay in? Could scare up a few biscuits of my own. Make some dirty dishes that we have to wash by hand if it’s gonna be that kind of weekend.”

Crowley’s knees grew a bit wobbly as Aziraphale met his eyes and laced their fingers together. Soft. Warm. Ever so good. Ever so nice. _Forever and ever._

“Just because I appreciate the of doing chores doesn’t mean I relish them.”

Crowley tilted his head. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”

The angel cocked an eyebrow. “Sometimes?”

“Most times. Psh.” But Aziraphale had already loosened his hand and was walking back into the house. Crowley followed.

“Come on.” Crowley reached out and tugged at the edge of his scarf. “We could make some cocoa? Boozy cocoa maybe?”

The scarf slid free of his fingertips, and Aziraphale tucked it tighter beneath his coat. He led them to the bedroom, and for a brief shining moment, Crowley was certain things going to take a turn in a very different direction. 

He leaned in closer. “Boozy cocoa, biscuits, and a bedtime story?”

“Ah!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and bent down. 

“Mmm,” Crowley said, “I love you.”

Aziraphale rose, and shoved the laundry basket into Crowley's hands. “Stop saying I love you to get out of chores.”

The spell suddenly broken, Crowley grimaced. "M'not!" His angular form sagged at the weight of the load. "Ohh, not laundry, Angel, you know it’s my least favorite!”

“I can’t imagine why,” Aziraphale stated, plucking his winter hat from the top of the pile and miracling it clean. Crowley gawked and sputtered. Aziraphale laid a finger aside his own round chin and contemplated the ceiling. “Oh wait, could it be because on multiple occasions I lose track of you, only to find you’ve resorted to your serpentine conveyance and for whatever reason have decided to burrow into my pile of laundry and fall asleep?” He spun on his heel and exited the room, leaving Crowley burdened with the basket. “I am not going return to do a load myself only to find I’ve chucked you into the washing machine again.”

“You think that was any fun for me?” Crowley grumbled, hoisting the load onto his hip, and stumbling along after him. Not only was it wildly embarrassing to be found nestled in the dark confines of a pile of your loved-one's laundry, but demons did not respond well to being set to permanent press. 

Aziraphale pulled his now-spotless hat down over his ears, snowy-white curls framing his cherubic face. 

He looked absurd. Preposterous. 

Crowley shook his head, resigned, and absolutely smitten.

Aziraphale leaned forward and their lips met for a quick (only subtly longer than necessary) kiss. (Crowley about lost his balance attempting to extended it a bit more.)

“I love you as well,” Aziraphale said, giving him a tap on the nose. “Have that cocoa ready when I get back, there’s a dear.”

Crowley sighed.

It really was quite perfect here.


End file.
